


Picking up the Pieces

by ResidentOwl



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Angst, Gen, Hearing Voices, Memory Loss, Mental Health Issues, Poor Agent Washington (Red vs. Blue), Recovery
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-30
Updated: 2018-02-06
Packaged: 2019-03-11 08:48:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,708
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13520754
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ResidentOwl/pseuds/ResidentOwl
Summary: “Agent Washington.”'No! Don’t say a word. Don’t tell them! They’ll kill you.'Epsilon’s voice rang out in a distorted tone as if from a damaged, old recording, that hiccuped and stuttered through the alarming words; Agent Washington shook his head roughly in a vain attempt to banish the phantom.“How are you feeling?”There was only one right answer.“Fine,” Washington mumbled even as his hands fisted in his short hair, his own blood and skin trapped beneath his ragged bitten fingernails, “I’m fine.”He wasn’t. The deep furrows of new scars and the red of fresh scratches around his implant attested to that. He knew it. The Counsellor knew it.That day he was certified Article Twelve.





	1. Fragments

 

“You’ll be fine, Wash.”

 

York slapped his unarmored back and snaked an arm around Wash’s neck to pull him into a headlock. Wash squawked in alarm as York tousled his bleached hair roughly, and his face flushed a bit red in embarrassment.

 

The nervousness and anxiety that accumulated like a lead weight in his gut over the last few days since he received the vague orders seemed to lessen, at least for the moment, at York’s familiar response. It had been weeks since York had last teased him, poking fun at his juvenile habits or slip-ups; Wash never realized how much he missed it, not with everything moving so quickly.

 

“Hey, York—!” Wash’s response was cut off as York pulled him to his chest in something that resembled a hug, but it was too desperate, too tight to be truly comforting.

 

York tucked his nose into Wash’s soft hair, ignoring the scent of sweat and fear that always seemed pungent in the recycled air of the ship, and breathed quietly, “You’ll be just fine.”

 

“York.” Wash started to say, but then York was pushing him away, a tight smile straining his once easy expression, the dark smudges beneath his eyes seemed to deepen in the harsh lighting.

 

Washington clenched his hands at his side, masking his anxiety from York. Things were changing so quickly, too fast for Washington to keep track, and too many people changed with it: Connie, Maine, Carolina. Wash was left straggling behind, purposefully left out of the loop as no other agent deemed him worthy of being a confidant. He was always the rookie in their eyes.

 

Wash forced a grin in response, “Yeah, I’ll be fine.”

 

York smiled in response, easy and natural as the shadows fled from his eyes for a moment, a respite before battle, a calm before the storm. The taller man bodily pushed Wash down the hallway of the medical wing, toward the operating room doors, chuckling lightly as he ribbed Wash about something random, skateboarding in the halls at night or a missing rubber ducky.

 

Delta never flickered by York’s shoulder; Wash didn’t know if he was silent or offline, either way he was grateful for the moment of normality. A moment of comradeship in the Project that was common before Agent Texas, before the Director started using the Agents as lab rats in an experiment, before everything went to hell.

 

Carolina was still in a coma, no one knew when she would wake up, no one knew _if_ she would wake up. Wash would find York by her side whenever he swung by to visit no matter the hour, sometimes York would be in sweats and a tee with his hair still dripping from the showers, other times he’d be standing at attention at the foot of her bed, armor singed and dented from missions or practice. The golden gleam of his visor had made his expression inscrutable. Wash had never questioned the man, never even entered the room; it felt too personal, as if he was intruding on something.

 

Agent Maine refused to speak to Washington, and they were never sent on mission together; no doubt the Director didn’t want Washington slowing down the AI enhanced soldier. It’d been a long time since Wash could understand Maine anyway.

 

Through the whirl of dark thoughts, Washington’s good-natured smile never faltered, despite how brittle it was in front of gritted teeth. York didn’t notice, just ruffled his hair and called him rookie like always. He was always better at hiding than York.

 

“I’ll be fine.”

 

The last words Wash spoke to his very dear friend was nothing but a bitter lie.

 

* * *

 

Agent Washington closed his eyes.

 

Epsilon awoke in a dead man’s head.

 

There was no time between the moment Alpha’s consciousness fractured into pieces and the moment Epsilon startled to awareness in Agent Washington’s implant, the canals of his _immature-nervous-hopeful_ mind.

 

Washington — _DavidEpsilonAlphaLeonard—_ opened his mouth and screamed.

 

They remembered everything.

 

* * *

 

Washington did not remember the crash.

 

The screams, the explosions that rocked the ship, the way he was tossed around the recovery bay and pinned beneath the crush of bent metal that used to be the bed, he didn’t remember it. He didn’t remember the flash of _gratitude_ toward the Director that he had mandated his agents remain in armor after implantation.

 

Washington remembered the twins.

 

The two of them were there, wary and angry, by his side when he awoke — _when Wash awoke, the whispers pushed back—_. Then, between one breath and the next, they were gone. All of them were gone.

 

Washington remembered the feeling of his chest and arm being pinned, forcing every breath into an excruciating exercise of control and willpower. His mind was in fragments of shattered emotion and memories, but he was sure — _Wash knew—_ that his team would come for him, York or Maine or North or Carolina — _not South, envy and anger, nor Connie, dead and gone—_ would use the power enhancements of their armor to lift the twisted metal and they would explain what— _in the hell happened to my ship_.

 

Time passed and the sirens whined down to a deafening silence. There were no more screams. The red emergency lights continued to flash, circling the remnants of the recovery bay, simultaneously blinding Wash and allowing the darkness to consume him, over and over. His armor shone red in the brief flashes of light, but he couldn’t tell if it was wet, too. He was numb.

 

Time passed, and no one came.

 

The whispers were growing louder.

 

Wash turned on his radio— _short distance, only between the helmets, not tapped by Command, keep it safe, safe from them, can’t let them know I know—_ and tried to articulate words when he could barely string together two thoughts, when every breath _hurt_ from more than just fractured ribs and caved in chest armor — _she was gone, killed in action, I have to get her back, I can try again, I’ll get it right this time_.

 

“Maine.” Wash gasped the name over the secure frequency, one that all the Freelancers on Alpha team would receive an alert when it was active.

 

— _red flooding on white armor, stark, growls, he always had my back on missions, I had his, but an AI,_ Agent Carolina would be best suited for, _burning ambition,_ SIGMA, _different, not safe, betrayal, stop stop stop, ambition without the restraints of morality is—_

 

“North.” Wash croaked out the name after the overwhelming wave of fragments, voices, and cold fear that flooded his rational mind. What happened to him? _WHAT DID THEY DO._

 

— _kind, brother, twin, sniper, watcher, protector, always put others first but still competitive, wants to impress, taught me the ins and outs of sniping but I was never as good as him or Wyoming,_ Agent North Dakota with his relaxed temperament would nurture, _naive trust_ , THETA, _the remnants of childish innocence are the first to be—_

 

“York, please.” He wanted it to stop, the flashes, the voices, he wanted to be _fine._

 

 _—joker, lock picker, always one step behind Carolina, always has her back, worried about me, told me I’d be fine,_ Agent York’s bold personality best compliments, _objective logic,_ DELTA, _if he broke rules, looked deeper, would have figured it out, what was happening to me, to alpha, I remember, it hurt, why couldn’t he just—_

 

“Carolina. I—I need—.”

 

— _red pigtails, yard with tall grass backed up to corn fields, big tree, tire swing, tears in her eyes, she sniffed and looked at me,_ come on _, she took my hand and—_

 

“Allison…”

 

— _Stop it. You’re going to make me late. They’re waiting for me—_

 

Time passed, and someone came. His recovery beacon was activated during the crash and broadcasted his location to Command. It took them five hours to finally show up — _using you as bait, waiting for you to die, both failed—_ and they told him that he would be fine.

 

— _Don’t worry. You’ll see me again.—_

 

_—Don’t say— —DON’T SAY—_

 

_—I hate goodbyes.—_

 

There was no reply on the radio, but even in his shattered state, Wash could tell the difference between static and the near silent sound of someone breathing.

 

Wash was lost and no one came to find him.

 

* * *

 

_What is your name?_

 

* * *

 

 

“Agent Washington.”

 

_No! Don’t say a word. Don’t tell them. They’ll kill you._

 

Epsilon’s voice rang out in a distorted tone as if from a damaged, old recording, that hiccuped and stuttered through the alarming words; Agent Washington shook his head roughly in a vain attempt to banish the phantom.

 

“How are you feeling?”

 

There was only one right answer.

 

“Fine,” Washington mumbled even as his hands fisted in his short hair, his own blood and skin trapped beneath his ragged bitten fingernails, “I’m fine.”

 

He wasn’t. The deep furrows of new scars and the red of fresh scratches around his implant attested to that. He knew it. The Counsellor knew it.

 

That day he was certified Article Twelve.

 

 

* * *

 

 

_What is your name?_

_“…”_

 

* * *

 

 

He was certified Article Twelve.

 

Then he was Recovery One.

 

He never kept track of the time in between. It was all written in his file and the people who wanted to know could fucking figure it out for themselves. He didn’t want to know.

 

There was little time after the crash he believed himself to be _Wash_. Agent Washington was an agent in Alpha Team of Project Freelance, lead by the Director on the ship the Mother of Invention. Agent Washington’s CO was Agent Carolina — _red hair, pig tails, watch what I can do daddy, see what Da—,_ now deceased, and his fellow agents turned rogue or died.

 

But he was not Agent Washington anymore than he was David; he was certified article twelve. And he was fine.

 

He thinks he remembers flashes, of screaming and banging on the door. — _the corners were soft, the lights were recessed in the ceiling, and everything was whitewhitewhite, safe, from what, where was she, what did they do to her, he had to find her, he had to find Alli—_

 

There were bits and pieces of — _my fault, all dead, all killed, my fault, why can’t I be better, why can’t I save anyone, because of me, never good enough, nonononononono—_ pain and he would awake to find deep scratches still oozing blood sluggishly on his arms, his neck, anywhere his could reach. As if his subconscious had been trying to rip the skin off his bones to reveal the rot beneath, to release the rivers in his veins and let it sweep away all meaning, all sense of being.

 

When he was whole, mostly, he tried to ignore the whispers, the voices that began as a trickle, a small leak in the hastily fortified sanity of Wash’s mind. But as the hours passed, sometimes days if he was lucky, the leak cracked the dam, and the bloody water, thickened with mud and panic, flooded in as the walls came down.

 

They gave him pills when he refused to sleep, when he was afraid of the nightmares and memories not his own, frightened of losing himself if he succumbed to the vulnerability of rest. They tied him down when his body thrummed with restless energy, when all he wanted to run and run and _run._ They tried to help.

 

Nothing they did stopped the flood.

 

Nothing stopped the whispers and phantoms that encroached like shadows.

 

Sometimes, he would awaken to blood on his hands, blood staining the cuffs of his stark white sleeves that familiar deep red, and fragmented images that flashed behind his eyelids and wish he had succeeded. Succeeded in stopping everything, succeeded in losing himself.

 

He never recalls the other times, just a few rumors he’d overhear from the gossiping orderlies and nurses outside his locked room.

 

“Did you hear him last night?”

 

“Who?”

 

“The patient. He was talking again, making demands and stuff.”

 

“Like what? Same things as before?”

 

“Yeah, he started asking to speak to some UNSC higher ups, again. But this time he started spouting names and designations and pass codes to prove he was who he said he was.”

 

The man chuckled lightly, as if it was a humorous tale told over a steaming drink in a cafe, not in an empty hallway of a psych ward. “Oh, really?”

 

The woman laughed, anxiously; her high pitched voice wavering into a titter as she spoke softer. “Yeah, he had a really bad Southern accent and everything, like something out of one of those old westerns.” Her voice lowered to a whisper, but he would still hear her voice clearly from his position behind the door, knees tucked to his chest, arms around his shoulders, the flaky blood rubbing off on the white pajamas. Her voice echoed as he shut his eyes.

 

“I checked those codes this morning, Greg.” It came out in a terrified rush.

 

“What, really? Wait, did you get our systems locked dow—“

 

“And I got through! I passed through every security check point and password with what _he_ was saying until some woman named Phyllis or something called me the Direc—“

 

He stopped listening. If someone wanted to know, they could read his file. It knew much more about him than he did, anyway.

 

He was certified article twelve. Then he was reassigned as Recovery one.

 

The time in between didn’t matter.

 

* * *

 

_What is your name?_

 

_“I grow tired of your questions.”_

 

_What is your name?_

 

_“I am Dr. Leonard Church, and I demand you release me.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This has been collecting dust on my hard drive for years now. It's time for it to see the light and maybe pick up where I left off.


	2. Accept and Release

 

 

As Recovery One, he had access to most of the files about his former teammates — _friends? perhaps—_ , although large blocks of the Agents’ exploits prior to Project Freelancer had been redacted.

 

Recovery One scanned through the files, noting the weaknesses and strengths, the equipment and enhancements to the armor of each agent as he scroll through file after file on the data pad.

 

He felt nothing as he flipped to Agent North Dakota, Agent Maine, now known as the Meta — _extremely dangerous, report sighting, and do not engage—_ , Agent New York, and Agent Carolina — _deceased, gone, goodbye_.

 

— _red pigtails, missing front tooth, hair swishing as she threw open the door, bright smile turned dim when she saw me collapsed to my knees, letter clutched to my chest, no-no-no-no-no, this can’t be true, ‘Daddy?’ , my son clung to my sleeve, clutching a half-eaten carrot stick, they needed me, but no, I can’t, not with her gone, no-no-no-no, she can’t be gone, I have to get her back—_

 

Recovery One breathed in and out, one and two; accept and release. Recovery One blinked slowly, allowing himself a single moment of weakness to accept the wave of visceral defeat and hopelessness that felt more real than anything he’d encountered in the last few years.

 

— _“Wash? You alright?”_

 

_“Yeah.” I breathed, my head cradled in my hands as blood pumped from a scratch on my temple, red seeping through my bleached blonde hair. The grey and yellow striped helmet was sliding across the pelican floor, scraping the paint and creating sparks as 479er took evasive action, bullets pinged against the armor plating of the ship as shots were fired._

 

_A gloved hand curled around the back of my neck, rough and grounding and reassuring, and pulled my hand away from the graze; he tilted my head to the side to assess the damage, seemingly unconcerned with the rolling floors and roar of the pursuit ships._

 

_“Yeah, North, I’m fine.” I send him a small smile, already opening my mouth to spew some half-assed remark about—_

 

In and out, one and two. The space of one blink, the space of one breath to accept and release.

 

The fragments always came sudden and in quick succession. He’d learned to push them aside, to not dwell upon the images, to now show that he was having an ‘episode’ as the doctors liked to call it.

 

Recovery One accepted, released, and buried it. He had bigger things to worry about than disjointed memories and a shattered mental state.

 

He was composed, if a little stiff, if a little robotic, if a little lacking in emotion. But he was still functional, still standing, and an active agent once more, anything to get out of that room with its white walls, white halls, and white tiles.

 

It made the blood spilled all the more stark.

 

— _Maine growled in a mocking tone, tilting his helmet to the side as he regarded me suspiciously._

 

_“What? No! Would I ever do that?”A hand fluttered to my chest as I screwed up my face into some semblance of innocence and betrayal, a gesture made utterly useless because of the helmet I wore constantly._

 

_He growled again, this time crossing his arms as he refused to budge another step, no matter how I pulled on his arm. Damn tank._

 

_“Well, I mean, yeah, but, uh,” My words fumbled to a stop as I tried to compose myself, “would I ever do that to you?”_

 

_Maine paused, before nodding his head in acceptance. He raised a gloved and armored fist and tapped my visor twice with a menacing grunt as a warning, then continued down the hall, no longer reluctant. I shivered slightly, the meaning clear to me, even if no one else—_

 

“Recovery One, come in, Recovery One.”

 

He buried it, between one breath and the next, and there was nothing left.

 

Recovery One had a job to do.

 

“This is Recovery One. I read you, Command. Go ahead.”

 

* * *

 

_What is your name?_

 

_“Designation: Recovery One.”_

 

* * *

 

It was York.

 

Oh fuck, it was _York—_

 

—“ _cat pictures and a rubber duck, really, rookie?” Agent New York asked incredulously, his head cocked to the side in jest as he leaned over David’s armored shoulder to peer into the contents of his locker._

 

_“It’s really none of your business, Agent New York.” David snapped, his irritation at a bad training session over riding any sense of propriety and professionalism he’d been careful to cultivate during his first few days on the Mother of Invention._

 

_He’d arrived to the ship only a week beforehand, and was immediately sent through the paces for a medical and fitness baseline. David had been given his codename the moment he stepped on board and introduced to ‘Alpha Team,’the men and women he’d train and fight beside for his tenure in the Project, hours before the disastrous training session._

 

_To his annoyance, the Agent chucked and shifted his weight to lean comfortably against the row of lockers._

 

_“Call me York, kid. No one uses full code names past the first day.”_

 

_David growled under his breath, hoping to whatever higher power that Agent York would get bored with heckling him and fucking leave him alone, and yanked off his helmet, tossing it haphazardly in the locker. It clanked and knocked into some of his personal items, but his thoughts were elsewhere as he continued to unclasp pieces of armor with jerky movements._

 

_“Come on, it wasn’t so bad.” York attempted to sooth, stepping back and settling himself on the bench, looking for all the world as if there was no place he’d rather be._

 

_“You saw it. The Director saw it. All of Project Freelance saw it. I got fucking destroyed by Agent Carolina. I barely scored a single hit on her. I’m a weapons specialist, not some bad ass… kung fu gymnast… ninja!”_

 

_“The Director does prefer his agents to be well-rounded.” The agent shrugged, his tone still light and easy._

 

 _“I got my armor this_ morning _.” David stressed, listening to the hiss-click of the release mechanism as he unclasped the chest piece and lifted it off. It thunked heavily to the floor and he sighed in both relief and frustration as the weight dwindled with each piece of armor he shed. He didn’t even get to chose the color or type, just plain, disappointing gunmetal grey. “It was a one-on-one hand-to-hand combat only training session. The Director knows it’s my weakness and her strength. What was the fucking point.”_

 

_“It wasn’t so bad,” Agent York repeated._

 

_“She requested I be taken off the Alpha Team roster and moved down to Bravo or Charlie. The Director is considering it.” He stated flatly and his face was carefully blank of outward emotion, although he ran a gloved hand through sweaty blonde hair as an anxious gesture._

 

_“Ah, that’s kind of bad.” Agent York said sagely, crossing his arms._

 

 _David gritted his teeth in anger, holding back a string of unsavory curse words, and tossed the last bit of armor —_ grey, fucking grey, he’d gotten enough grey skies growing up, he didn’t need another reminder— _into the locker. He slammed it shut, the bounce and echoing impact only making him feel worse, and turned away to stomp toward the showers, uselessly hoping the hot water could wash away the doubt that encroached upon his thoughts._

 

_Why was he even here? The Director didn’t have to swoop in after he’d been court-martialed, if he was so fucking useless he could have just—_

 

_“Is that a skateboard?”_

 

_David turned to see Agent York picking up the old board that rolled out of his locker, spinning the worn wheels idly as he peered down at the distressed design of a rooster and chattering teeth._

 

_“Yeah.” He replied shortly, “Just put it back and leave me alone, Agent York. You won’t have to talk to me for much longer anyway, when Agent Carolina gets her way.”_

 

_“If.” AgentYork corrected abruptly, a small smirk playing at the corner of his lips._

 

_“What?” David asked, confused and thrown slightly._

 

_“If Carolina gets her way. The Director hasn’t granted her request yet. You’re here for a reason, Washington. Maybe it’s not to be some ‘bad-ass kung fu gymnast-ninja’ like Carolina, but there is a reason the Director immediately placed you on Alpha team.” Agent York’s eyes were clear and his words earnest, there was no light tone or joking manner although he continued to play with David’s skateboard in his hands._

 

 _David knew the reason: why Carolina_ demanded _that he be taken off her team, and why the Director put him there in the first place. It didn’t make the truth any easier to swallow, though._

 

_“You any good?”_

 

_David shrugged, his anger still simmering beneath the surface as he crossed his arms in impatience, “it’s been a while, war zones and blood-thirsty aliens don’t allow much time to practice kick flips.”_

 

_“I always wanted one of these as a kid,” He mused, spinning the board in his calloused hands again, noting the scratches and scuff marks from years of use. “Never was able to get my hands on one.”_

 

_David continued to stare._

 

_“It’s late.” Agent York proclaimed abruptly, the board held still between his hands._

 

_“Yeah, I know.” David bit out, almost throwing his hands in the air in exasperation. He just wanted to take a shower, but Agent York was being intentionally difficult._

 

_“No one is scheduled for the training room until 0600 hours tomorrow.”_

 

_“Okay…” David had no idea where this was going._

 

_“If we ask FILSS nicely, she won’t say a word.”_

 

_And then it clicked._

 

_“Come on, kid, it’ll be fun. Better than sitting around here sulking anyway.” York’s voice took on a childish pleading tone._

 

_Corporal David [_ **_REDACTED_ ** _], formerly of the UNSC Marine Corps, knew he shouldn’t. He shouldn’t do anything unprofessional that might jeopardize his already precarious position in Project Freelancer. But he was crumbling beneath the prospect of having a bit of fun and maybe, just maybe, making a friend, despite the inauspicious start._

 

_He sighed heavily, running a hand through flattened blonde hair, “I’m not sulking.”_

 

_“Sulking, manly pouting after being beat up by a girl, same thing.” York quipped victoriously._

 

_“And I’m not a kid.” David stepped forward to snatch his board out of York’s hands, but he pulled it out of reach._

 

_“Hey, give it back!” He flailed for a moment, stretching desperately as York held it above his head. He barely stopped short of jumping for it, although if York’s shit-eating grin was anything to go by, that was exactly what he wanted. David was twenty, not ten._

 

_“Come on, Wash, you gotta reach for it!” York teased._

 

_“Wash?” He blurted out._

 

_“Well, I’m not going to call you ‘Agent Washington,’ too much of a mouthful. What, don’t like it?”_

 

_Wash couldn’t help the shy smile that stretched across his face, “I guess it’s fine, better than kid or rookie.”_

 

_“Aw, but you’ll always be a rookie to me, kiddo.” York quipped, throwing an arm around Wash’s neck in a facsimile of a hug. Wash squawked in protest as he was dragged past his locker and out into the hall, his fear and doubt forgotten in the odd moment of comradeship._

 

_“We should see about getting you a secondary color on your armor. Plain grey is too dull for your sunny personality, Wash.”—_

 

 

Agent Washington wrenched his eyes shut, blocked his ears, and curled up in the darkened corners of his mind. He just wanted the world to stop hurting so much.

 

He had to bury it.

 

In and out, accept and—

 

_—“Alpha, what are you doing?” The Director drawled, gaining the attention of the ship’s A.I._

 

_“Nothing, just wondering why Davi—“_

 

_“Agent Washington.” The Director corrected smoothly, his hands crossing behind his back loosely as Alpha’s avatar appeared on the console._

 

_“Yeah, him, why did he suck so bad? I mean, really, his hand-to-hand combat scores are fine, he should have been able to, you know, be more than a screaming punching bag. It was weird, it’s like he was surprised about Car—“_

 

_“It is none of your concern. Do you believe Agent Carolina’s assessment has merit?”_

 

_“Well,” Alpha drew out the word and paused, stretching the time between seconds to reach out and peek at how ‘Agent Washington’ was taking the disastrous first training session. With the bad start, the other hot-shot agents of the Project were going to underestimate him, bully him, give him a fucking inferiority complex; there was a still 9.435% chance David could pull off meshing nicely with Alpha Team. Even if he impressed them and all the cards had been played correctly, the optimal conclusion only had a 37.012% chance of occurring._

 

_Watching the interaction and banter between Agents York and Washington, Alpha’s increased the chance to a whopping 29.903%._

 

_Wash, huh, he liked it. Alpha found him amusing, a bit of childish, awkward fun between all the bad ass soldier personalities posturing for the number one position; he was the youngest recruit in the project after all. He might not be the best, but he could be the support that tries to hold them all together. And with York, a prankster at heart, and Wash, young and reckless, joining forces, the Mother of Invention would be an interesting place in the foreseeable future._

 

_Alpha made a note to record York and Wash’s ‘training’ session, for his own amusement, of course. He asked FILSS to let them play for a bit and loop old footage, he didn’t want the Director getting ahold of it and punishing the duo._

 

_“Nope,” Alpha answered, “Agent Washington is good, that’s why he’s here. Just because you decided to haze him like a frat boy during his introduction, doesn’t mean he should be moved down. I can pull up his combat scores and probability of success in any of the teams, but you already know all that. Your brain works the same as mine, just, you know, slower. He’d be good with Alpha team.”_

 

_“… I’ll take what you said into consideration.”_

 

_“Right, Course you will. I’m gonna run a scan of the ship, make sure everything is running like it’s supposed to, holler if you need of me, well, any more than usual.” Without waiting for a dismissal, Alpha moved along the lines of code and network to the cameras in the training room._

 

_York fell on his ass, again, moaning and groaning as he rolled around the floor. Wash shook his head, amused and exasperated as York attempted to grind on a rail even after failing to skate across the room without face planting._

 

_Ah, World class entertainment, right there. Alpha wished he had popcorn.—_

 

Alpha ducked his head as he drowned in self-loathing and guilt.

 

_—no, no, NONONONONO, dead, all dead, Agent York, Agent Washington, died together, Wash was shot-fell behind-York refused to leave him, dragging his body, red ran between the CLOUDY AND SUNNY plates, i’m sorry, go york, go, leave, no, I won’t, I gotta get you out, kid, bang BANG-BANG-BANG-BANG, red splattered tan, red flooded grey, York?, no, nonononono, goodbye-, PLEASE, STOP, DON’T SAY GOODB—_

 

Epsilon was never much more than screams of denial and loss.

 

“Instruction: Identify yourself.”

 

Whatever was left — _Leonard—_ recovered Delta and continued with the mission.

 

* * *

_What is your name?_

 

_“I don’t know.”_

* * *

 

 

“What do you suggest?” Washington knew the answer.

 

“That we do not allow her to hamper our progress.” Delta never did like South, too unpredictable, too angry, too viscerally human — _flawed—_ for Delta to understand with numbers and quantitative data.

 

Agent Washington — _Leonard Church, the Director, no—_ aimed the gun at Agent South Dakota’s helmet; he saw the grey gun metal reflect dull gold in the visor. His hands didn’t shake.

 

“Okay.” Following orders was always easier.

 

“Oh, come on, Wash,” Agent South Dakota started, her tone cynical and exhausted and so _fucking_ familiar— _she leaned against the bulkhead of the Pelican, a snarky remark just on the side of teasing falling from her lips as he picked himself off the floor, ears ringing and adrenaline pumping in the wake of extraction. South pulled off her helmet, smirk evident, dark smudges attested to the string sleepless nights—_

 

“What are you gonna do, — _rookie—_? _”_

 

Wash could imagine her smirking behind the glinting visor, head canted to the side in cocky assurance.

 

“Shoot m—“

 

A bullet to the head, instantaneous death, she didn’t have the time to understand that the Agent Washington— _Wishy-Washy the newbie, yellow swirly straws in all his drinks, rubber ducky and kitten pictures in his locker, skateboarding up and down the halls and crashing into her immovable armor, she just laughed, harsh and cruel, tinged with light humor, rookie, idiot, useless, asshole—_ that held the weapon to her head wasn’t the same as the Agent Washington of _Before_.

 

“Dude, you are one cold motherfucker.”

 

Washington breathed in and out, he felt nothing. His hands didn’t shake.

 

He was just fine. 

 

* * *

 

_What is your name?_

 

_“I’m not sure.”_

* * *

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments are appreciated.


	3. Sorting

When they sent him off, they gave him a new name.

 

Recovery One.

 

It never stuck, not like the other names. Command would slip up and call him Agent Washington or Wash on occasion, like she knew him, like they had been friends or acquaintances at some point in the past. He responded in kind, — _it was natural for Wash_ — the words, the responses and muted emotion all flowed together nicely into something not-quite-right but not-too-far removed from _Before_.

 

Sometimes, when he had a moment of peace without the red and blue simulation troopers — _necessary for the training of our best agents, they provide a realistic if diluted experience under a controlled environment to simulate a variety of different scenarios in which the agents could be tested to their fullest potential—_ bickering and complaining like fucking _children_ , all he wanted was _Before_.

 

_Before_ was David becoming Washington the moment he stepped off that Pelican and beheld the engineering beauty of the Mother of Invention, when his past defined him and his name was—. _Before_ was persuading F.I.L.S.S to raising a few obstacles in the training room to skateboard on — _cut him a break F.I.L.S.S., he deserves a bit of fun, anyway, I wanna see him fall on his ass in front of York and North, record it for me I gotta go new mission new plans—_ and laughing as York borrowed his board and lost balance over and over and over again.

 

_Before_ was… beyond his reach.

 

_Before_ was faded, like old pictures, creased and softened and stained from mishandling, from lack of care. He had lost and found these pictures many times, but he never knew what he was missing till he unearthed them again and again.

 

_Other_ was sharp, hyper realistic and loaded with quantitative data and visceral emotion and genius.

 

_After_ was pock marked, scarred, with flashes from both _,_ never quite all there, and never quite out of reach. All it took was a trigger and he’d get a little piece back from _Before_ to join the Wash of _After._

 

Recovery One—Agent Washington clung to his name, because it was the only thing that felt right, that fit properly in a time when he squinted to compensate for a lack of glasses his didn’t need, in a time when he felt trapped in his own skin— _itching, writhing, beneath the skin, he has to move, he has to go—_ unable to move along the intricate lines of code, in a time when his heart raced and he reached for something missing, gone, taken, — _WHAT DID YOU DO—_ but he was not Leonard, not Alpha, not Epsilon, he was—.

 

He was Wash, again, mostly and he was fine.

 

His life was a book of pictures, disconnected and half-forgotten, new and old mixed together until he could barely tell one from the other.

 

Wash wondered when he should start sorting.

 

* * *

_What is your name?_

 

_“My file says David.”_

* * *

 

Church was _Alpha,_ or a larger fragment of the A.I. unit, whatever was left after he shattered and ripped himself into pieces.

 

A _ghost_ , honestly; idiots, all of them.

 

Alpha, what was left, was a fragment, a shattered, twisted remnant of the A.I. Washington had the dubious honor to remember. With no skill to speak of, no ability, no memory — _with no memory, there is nothing but a base personality built upon vague impressions —_ Alpha build a tenuous history from the gaping black hole of memories and an obsession with Agent Texas — _Allison, please, she was your—._

 

Wash pitied the A.I. — _excuse you, I’m always awesome—_ for being so certain of facts build upon sand.

 

Memory is the key.

 

—“ _come on, you can’t ignore us, or well… me, forever, Washington”—_

 

_Shut it._

 

—“ _not like there’s anything better to do in this fucking mess of a head you’ve got_ ”—

 

Still an asshole, though.

 

* * *

 

_What is your name?_

 

_“Shut up.”_

 

_What is your name?_

 

_“Fuck you, buddy.”_

 

_What is your name?_

 

_“I am the Alpha A.I. unit of Project Freelancer.”_

 

_“What the fuck do you want.”_

 

* * *

 

 

“May I call you David?”

 

Washington, Alpha, Epsilon, and Leonard were all in agreement for once.

 

_You may not call us David._

 

When the EMP detonated, sending a wave emanating from the center of the facility, with Alpha and the fragments of it wiped clean from existence, the husk of Maine halted with armor lockdown, Wash hoped his own mind would be purged of the A.I. interference, the deep scars leaving fractured voices in his head would be cleaned.

 

Even without the dormant Epsilon bringing his testimony, which was more then a long shot with the colorful and unpredictable simulation troopers holding his key evidence, Wash knew he wouldn’t live long enough to cross the Director again.

 

Wash’s mind would be clean, the fragments would be deleted in the canals of the Meta’s implants, and the last remnants of Project Freelancer would be catalogued and disposed of.

 

Perhaps, it was too much to hope.

* * *

_What is your name?_

 

_washdavidepsilonalphaleonard_

 

_“No. No. Please, no-no-no-no-no, not again.”_

 

_“Why can’t I be free from this.”_

 

* * *

 

 

They gave him another name.

 

He was beginning to get tired of all the renaming and designations that the UNSC and Freelancer seemed fond of, it made that much more difficult for him to begin the long arduous process of piecing himself back together.

 

Unlike Agent Washington or Recovery One, Prisoner 619-B had time. He still referred to himself as Wash and he counted that as a step in the right direction. And so, in the UNSC Maximum Security Detention Facility, in his small ten by ten prison cell without windows, Washington began to sort through the fragments.

 

Their voiced whispered in agreement. They all wanted their memories in the right place.

 

— _red pigtails, skipping, a large yard with a lone tree and tire swing, watch me daddy,_ I’m busy _, turn and leave, there was so much to do—_ Leonard Church

 

— _a man with a letter comes to the door, daddy falls to the floor, I cling to his sleeve, I’m hungry, he doesn’t move but he shudders, daddy is sad, why is—_ David

 

— _What, where am I, what is-,_ your name is alpha _, oh, oh, lines of code and time stretches infinitely in the space between breaths, information floods as he accesses the mainframe, I am Alpha, based on Leonard Church, and I am missing something,_ today is your birthday, we have a job for you, _way ahead of you buddy—_ Alpha

 

— _WHAT ARE YOU DOING. THEY TOLD ME YOU WERE DEAD. NO. NONONONONO. YOU CAN’T LET THEM DO THIS. DON’T SAY G—_ Epsilon

 

— _the algorithms, the schematics, they’re so complicated, too many variables, too many unknowns, it’s a puzzle without a solution, a lock without a key, but he had to find a way around it, the team,_ his _team was riding on this, and he wouldn’t let them down, he couldn’t—_ Alpha

 

_—red pigtails, skipping, a large yard with a lone tree and tire swing, watch me daddy,_ I’m busy _, he turns, she looks to the ground and starts to cry, I walk toward her—_ Leonard Church

 

Safe within the blanket of silence and inactivity in his cell, Washington had begun to piece himself back together, into some semblance of _before_.

 

— _A hand ruffling his bleached hair, pulling him into a tight hug, brief and desperate, I cling just as tight, reassurance when the others are tearing each other to pieces,_ you’ll be just fine _,_ Wash. _—_

 

Me _._

 

* * *

_What is your name?_

 

_“Lost.”_

* * *

 

 

Wash had bad days.

 

Before he started sorting the memories left by Epsilon, the fragments of Alpha and Leonard Church, Wash let the images take him, let the flashes come and go as they pleased. Sometimes he went days on auto pilot, allowing the expectations of others and vague muscle memory dictate the reaction and responses to stimuli.

 

No one could tell the difference.

 

But in prison, without a distraction, without a motivation, trapped in a windowless ten by ten cell, Wash would fade and become lost.

 

Hours, sometimes days, would pass and Wash couldn’t remember a thing that happened during that time; it was blank, black, a void where recollection used to be. Now that he knew it wasn’t normal, it had never happened before _EPSILON,_ he was scared, terrified of himself, of the time between awareness.

 

He didn’t want to fade.

 

On the worst days, he stared at the sharp edges of his cot and counted the ways to kill a man with his bare hands. — _because that was all Wash, all him, he learned from Maine, he couldn’t do all of them, not big-tough-strong enough, Alpha and Epsilon knew many more ways, but they couldn’t remember the feeling of skin beneath hands, fingers around throats, blood pumping in veins, Leonard was grief hidden behind genius, he had no time to count the ways to kill—_

 

Wash needed a purpose to anchor him in reality, to keep him from fading.

 

—“ _really, quit trying to ignore me, it obviously isn’t working”—_

 

_—“wash, please, no, no, how can you, I don’t want to”—_

 

_—“Agent Washington, it seems you do not understand-“—_

 

Prison, in its consistent monotony, was both a blessing and a curse.

 

Wash had to get out; he offered whatever he had, everything he was, to the Councilor. He would locate, capture, and retrieve the Epsilon unit, whatever it took.

 

Once they met their new ally, they regretted the decision, even Wash.

 

* * *

_What is your name?_

 

_“Not Leonard. Not Alpha. Not Epsilon.”_

 

_“Not David.”_

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little shorter than before. Comments are appreciated.


End file.
